It came to my attention this weekend that I am no longer able to handle the heat the way I did when I was a child, much less 20 years ago.

My mother would make me come into the house on particularly hot days, despite my protests. I would run in smelling like a hot, sweaty kid and pond muck — from happily hunting for and playing with crawdads along the ends of the pond — with a hint of cedar sap that stuck to my fingers and palms — a tell tale sign of tree climbing — and dewberry stains on my fingers and face. (I knew where to scrounge up the good eats.) 

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